


A Life Over-Rehearsed

by Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt has Emotions and doesn't know what to do with them, M/M, Rating May Change, Spy Jaskier | Dandelion, and then somehow feelings got involved, this was supposed to be a dumb series about Geralt's unquenchable thirst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25385947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum/pseuds/Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum
Summary: "How does a bard end up becoming a spy?"Or, what do you do when you find out that the best friend you're definitely not in love with has secretly been a bit of a badass this whole time?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 124





	1. Chapter 1

Blood dripped, thick and cold, down Geralt's neck. He hoisted the katakan higher on his shoulder, as if the beast wasn't larger and heavier than Geralt himself, and pushed through the doors. Ignoring the cry of palace guards hurrying after him, he deposited his bounty onto the floor with a wet slap.

Above him, King Foltest paled. "Thank you, witcher," he said faintly. He did not seem as close to vomiting as the advisors stood with him, to his credit. All around there were people stepping back with varying looks of horror, and at that Geralt finally took a real look at his surroundings.

He was not, as he had expected to find himself, in Foltest's council room, but was instead kneeling on the marble floor of a banqueting hall. One clearly in use. That would explain why the guards had tried to bar his entry. He caught sight of Triss beyond Foltest's shoulder, fighting a laugh without much success, and offered her a wry smile.

Foltest looked to his guards. "Take it away, for gods' sake. Lord Toursten, I presume you will find the beast, uh— useful?"

A wiry man wearing a pinched expression to Foltest's right nodded and, hesitantly, the music resumed as the man led the guards from the room, the creature smearing a trail of filth as it was dragged behind them. Geralt climbed to his feet.

"And you, witcher," said Foltest. "After such an arrival, I am sure it would be considered most rude if you did stay for the remainder of the celebrations. But first, I think a bath is in order." He paused, and flicked his gaze over Geralt, covered with blood and the swampy mud of the forests beyond the palace. "Please?"

Geralt picked at his doublet as he headed from the baths. He made no hurry to return to the festivities. Even without the memory of his entrance scarred in people's minds, he was sure to be an object of curiosity for the night, subjected to ceaseless furtive glances and attempts at conversation. He'd rather be back outside tangling with any other monsters he could find lurking in the forests.

Maybe that was why he paused when he caught the sound of someone moving about behind a closed door, rather than continue on his way in feigned ignorance.

There was no need for any of Foltest's guests to have found their way down here. Geralt stepped forward, slow, and pressed his ear to the door. The soft scrape of a chair from within. Rustling of papers. The sound was quiet; any guards passing this way would not have heard it. Deliberately so.

It was none of Geralt's business. He would be far better off returning to the hall to be stared at and whispered about all night. He knew that, even as he pressed his fingertips to the cold wood and pushed.

The room was too dark for Geralt to make out more than the shadowy outline of the man skulking about in the shadows. He dilated his pupils and crept into the room — an apothecary, judging by the pungent miscellany of smells strong enough to make Geralt's eyes water. He didn't want to think about the kinds of things a thief might find in here. The figure moved to the bookcase, taking each book down and flicking purposefully through its pages. He knew what he was searching for, that much was clear.

Whatever it was, Geralt didn't give him the time to find it.

He clapped a hand to the man's shoulder and wrenched him back across the room, mindless to the sounds of jars and trinkets smashing to the ground in their wake. Perhaps it would be enough to draw the notice of Foltest's guards and Geralt could be done with this whole unseemly business. He slammed the man against the wall, forearm pressed to his throat.

He really shouldn't have interfered.

The clothes that had been laid out for him were better suited to preening under the gaze of nobility than tussling in the dark, too tight for ease of movement and sorely lacking in the protection his armour offered. Especially when he felt the sharp prickle of a dagger positioned between his ribs with deadly accuracy. And Geralt's own swords were currently sat useless with his armour.

Damn it.

But as Geralt considered his options (the most tempting so far being to take a step back and pretend he hadn't seen a thing), the cloud cover that blanketed the forest broke, letting a thin sliver of moonlight through the room's tiny window. It was enough to help Geralt make out more of his captive's features. As they took shape, he realised they were disconcertingly familiar.

_"Jaskier?"_ He dropped the arm pressed to the man's neck, though not the one still pinning him to the wall.

The blade tip digging into his flank disappeared. "Geralt?" The man's voice was hushed in the quiet gloom, but it was unmistakably Jaskier's.

"What are you doing?"

"What are _you_ doing, pouncing on people in the dark?" He gave an indignant huff Geralt was well used to hearing. And as was often the case when Geralt heard it, Jaskier was in no position to be indignant about anything. He tugged on the hem of his doublet when Geralt released him, and tucked his dagger back out of sight with a smooth, practised motion.

"Where did you learn to use that?" said Geralt.

"How many men of noble birth do you imagine have never been trained in the use of a blade?"

Plenty, from personal experience. And Geralt would have wagered every coin he'd ever earned that Jaskier was one of them.

"Well, as nice as this little catch-up has been," Jaskier went on, as if they had stumbled across one another in a tavern rather than skulking in the dark bowels of a palace. "I'm sure you had best be on your way. Important witcher business to be getting back to, and all that."

"And you?" Geralt caught Jaskier's wrist and lifted his hand to the light, along with the papers still clutched within it. "What business are you getting back to?"

"You know, it really is a funny story…"

Geralt gave him a sharp shove back against the wall, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to silence whatever bullshit was about to come spilling from his mouth. "Jaskier!"

"All right, fine," he snapped, his eyes darting to the still open door before returning to Geralt. His voice dropped so low that even with his heightened senses Geralt had to strain to hear the words. "There are whispers of a plot against King Foltest."

Of all the answers Geralt might have expected, that wasn't on the list. He stared back at Jaskier with the kind of baffled frown Jaskier was uniquely skilled in prompting. "What does that matter to you?"

"It will matter to all of us, if it succeeds."

Geralt opened his mouth, but before he could speak he slammed it shut again, ears pricked at the sound of voices. Footsteps. Distant, but growing closer. "Someone's coming," he breathed.

His gaze flicked about the room — too bright now in the moonlight for them to go unnoticed. In the far corner of the room: a shadowy alcove, sheltered from the emerging light. He dragged Jaskier into it.

"I'm telling you, he wouldn't want us poking around in here," a voice said, and the door creaked as it was pushed open wider. Geralt pressed himself and Jaskier as close to the wall as they could get and, barely breathing for fear of making a sound, they waited.

The sound of two pairs of feet shuffling about the room. Geralt's fingers tightened at Jaskier's hip. He could hear Jaskier's heartbeat throbbing in his ears as if it was his own, and looked back at Jaskier to find him already watching Geralt in the dark. So close, the scent of Jaskier's hair filled Geralt's senses. Honeysuckle, this time. He hadn't smelled it on Jaskier before.

"Better us than someone else," replied a second voice, gruffer than the first. "I heard _something_ down here."

"Probably just one of the bloody cats. Hardly surprising, the things he keeps in here." The sound of a jar being picked up and shaken curiously, its contents sloshing against the glass. "I don't fancy being the one to tell Toursten, though." A sigh, and, "There's nothing here. Come on."

Geralt didn't dare twist to make sure the guards were really leaving, lest the rustle of fabric give them away. With a scrape against the stone floor, the door closed and the room fell back into silence. They remained in place until the echo of footsteps beyond the room had grown fainter and disappeared.

Jaskier let out a long breath.

Geralt stared at him. "You're stealing secrets."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I'm good at it," he said, as if it was that simple.

As if he'd done it before.

He slipped past Geralt, leaving only the lingering remains of that honeysuckle scent, and Geralt watched in silence as he returned to the table, took out his lyric book — which Geralt was quickly coming to suspect contained far more than lyrics — and scribbled down the contents of the letters he had found. The air of professionalism about the whole thing set Geralt's teeth on edge.

"So someone is making plans to overthrow King Foltest," he said. He folded his arms across his chest. It was none of his business — kings faced rebellions all the time; usually they failed, and for those that didn't, well, the country would find itself with a new king, and life would go on largely as it had before. Most people wouldn't even notice. But if Jaskier had somehow found himself involved…

It felt more like Geralt's business now than he'd have liked.

"Lord Toursten."

"I've met him."

Jaskier gestured to the letters scattered across the table. "He's gathering support."

"Foltest hired you?"

"Foltest has no idea. He trusts the man blindly."

"Then—" Geralt frowned, before the pieces clicked into place. "Triss," he said.

Jaskier remained pointedly silent. He gathered up the letters, returned the originals to their hiding place, and tucked his own copies inside his doublet. Geralt watched as, meticulous, Jaskier set about putting the room back to how he'd found it.

"But why? Temeria has had worse kings than Foltest."

"Because of Cintra."

"Cintra is gone."

"Queen Calanthe is gone," Jaskier corrected. "And all of Cintra's lands there for the taking. Easy enough for Temeria to extend its borders south should its king command it." He paused. "The princess—"

"—Is safe."

"You're sure of it?"

"I am." He smiled, a little. The expression did nothing to ease the concern on Jaskier's face. "The only thing she has to fear is Vesemir's cooking."

"You should send word to him," said Jaskier, his eyes wide and earnest as he studied Geralt's face. It was hard not to be moved by the look. "If Foltest's usurpers succeed, the first thing the new king will do is see that the true heir to the Cintran throne is no longer a threat."

"I will."

Jaskier nodded, and with hands on his hips, he turned to survey the room. It wasn't perfect, thanks to Geralt's less than stealthy intrusion — and he felt a stab of sudden, cold fear that his interference had put Jaskier at risk — but Jaskier seemed satisfied enough. He looked back at Geralt with a familiar cocksure smile.

"Now if you'll excuse me, my dear friend, I am as of this moment supposed to be entertaining the lovely Lady Agnetta upstairs. I imagine she'll be rousing herself for a second round any moment now."

Jaskier resumed his swagger like it was as natural to him as breathing — like Geralt was simply imagining things, perhaps, and had not just had his every idea of the man come crashing down around him — and slipped from the room, leaving Geralt to stare, dumbfounded, in his wake.


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt didn't linger at the banquet longer than he had to. Once Jaskier had returned to the hall, lute in hand and the scent of someone else on his skin, as if the humble bard was all he was and ever had been, the last of Geralt's patience had abandoned him. He couldn't watch Jaskier pretend everything was normal.

But maybe for Jaskier it was.

Geralt was still reeling as he walked with Roach through the forest, turning over in his mind his every memory of the man, searching for some hint he should have picked up on, something that would explain all of this. He felt like he was losing a game he didn't even know he'd been playing. If Jaskier had managed to hide this from Geralt for so long, what else had he been keeping from him all these years?

Roach pulled at the reins in Geralt's hand, which snapped him out of his spiralling thoughts, and he led her down towards the stream they had been following. He had been eager to leave Temeria as fast as possible, like the memory of this night might not be able to follow him beyond its borders, but he supposed there wasn't much point going to the effort.

Geralt had a hard enough time getting rid of Jaskier in the flesh. It was futile trying to outrun him in his own mind.

Before he could pull free his packs to start making camp, however, a crackle of twigs caught his ear. Footsteps. Too heavy to be an animal. Too light to be something Geralt could hunt and perhaps work out some of his frustration. He pulled out his sword anyway, but stayed his ground, waiting for the approach.

He sighed at the sight of Triss strolling between the trees towards him. There was some small, stupid part of him that thought it might have been Jaskier.

"I thought I'd find you out here," she said. She was still wearing her finery from Foltest's hall beneath the cloak she pulled tighter against the falling snow.

Geralt didn't bother with pleasantries. "You've known all along, haven't you?"

"It's my job to know things," she said. Her tone was light, but her eyes flashed with warning. Geralt looked around as if he might spot whoever, whatever, was listening. "And I know the night will be too cold for even a witcher to bear out here. Come; my cabin isn't far."

The moment Triss had closed and warded the door behind them, Geralt unloosed his tongue. "Why is Jaskier spying for you?" he demanded.

"To business, then," she said. Even so, she still crossed the room to kneel beside a lightly crackling fire. She pressed a hand to the kettle set above it and immediately steam billowed from its spout. The smell of steeped herbs and flowers filled the room. "Not that it is, of course," she continued, and gestured for Geralt to sit. "Any of yours."

"Jaskier is a friend—"

"Then you should feel an immense pride at the important work he has chosen to undertake." She handed him a cup of the tea. Her eyes on Geralt didn't falter until he took a reluctant sip. It took the chill from his bones, but did nothing to pacify him.

Geralt scoffed. "Getting himself killed over the petty rivalries of kings. Where is the importance in that?"

"Even the pettiest quarrel can have grave consequences. As I imagine you're aware, since you seem to find yourself involved in human affairs remarkably often, for a witcher." She stared back at him. Her gaze was knowing, but patient, no trace of judgement in her eyes. Unreasonably, that annoyed Geralt even more. "So what are you really angry about, Geralt?"

"You should have told me."

She arched a brow. "That your friend is a spy?"

Hearing the words aloud took the wind out of Geralt's brewing indignation. He cowed, just a little. "Perhaps not," he conceded.

"I understand your concern," said Triss. "These are dangerous times for all of us. But trust your friend. He knows what he's doing."

But that was just the problem, wasn't it? He thought back to watching Jaskier work, with the sheer, unnerving competence of a man well-practiced in the act.

_He'd said he was good at it._

Geralt's jaw clenched. "How long?" he said. "How long has he been doing this?"

"For a man who claims to have the safety of his friend at heart, you seem intent on asking questions which could place you and him both in harm's way."

He huffed, and let his eyes wander across the room. Triss was looking at him like she could unpick every one of his secrets if he held her gaze for too long. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Nothing, Geralt. You do nothing. In the morning you will ride from Temeria, and you will seek out your next contract, and it will be of only a distant concern to you what antics your friend the bard is up to, losing himself between skirts and facing the wrath of cuckolded husbands." She set her cup down. Geralt had not taken another sip of his own. "You can spend the rest of the night here if you wish."

"I should move on," said Geralt. He sighed, handing his cup to Triss as he stood. "I have a contract to seek out, apparently."

She nodded, and walked with him back to the door. With a faint glow Triss' wards slipped away at her touch, and Geralt wondered how long they had been living like this, operating in secret, knowing they may be being watched at any moment. He thought of Jaskier, incapable of keeping his mouth shut if his life depended on it. But maybe that had been an act, as well.

"When you next see him, tell him I—" He faltered, acutely aware that he had no right to demand anything of Jaskier. Not his time, his presence. Not the answers to the growing list of questions Geralt was now left with. "Tell him to be careful."

Triss smiled, the kind of soft smile that managed to soothe Geralt and leave him off kilter all at once which she was so good at. "He's always careful."

The words weren't as much comfort as Geralt had hoped.


	3. Chapter 3

Weeks passed. Geralt had heard no more about the rebellion in Temeria. Nor had he had word from Jaskier.

It wasn't unusual. They would go months at a time without seeing one another, and Jaskier had long ago given up on sending letters at the realisation of just how few actually reached Geralt. It had never been a concern before. Geralt had never had any reason to worry that he wouldn't one day stumble into Jaskier again.

The silence was a nagging itch within him now. He travelled through towns he would usually go out of his way to avoid, spent the days frequenting taverns and market halls, weathering the curious or at times openly hostile stares of the townsfolk, all in some vain hope that he might be in the right place at the right time to catch Jaskier. It was maddening. How Jaskier could always track Geralt down with such ease was beyond him.

But then, Jaskier had plenty of skills Geralt had remained in blissful ignorance about until now.

He had thought he could smell Jaskier in the marketplace, that honeysuckle scent of his hair drifting sweet through the stench of waste and livestock and unwashed flesh, and Geralt had whirled in its direction, pushing through the crowd, eyes flicking over everyone in search of dark hair and a garish doublet. He stopped short at the edge of the square, the scent coming alive all around him.

There, against the wall of one of the buildings, climbed vines covered in pale, fragrant flowers. "Fuck," Geralt muttered. He had to curl his hands into fists to keep from igniting the plant in frustration.

The smell still haunted him as he trudged back to the inn and climbed the stairs to his room.

But perhaps it was for the best that he had not found Jaskier. Geralt's purse was growing lighter by the day — he could spare enough for a bed and to stable Roach tonight, some food to see him on his way in the morning, but he wouldn't be able to stretch it much further. He needed to find a contract. And he'd not be able to focus on a hunt if he continued to let thoughts of Jaskier consume him.

Geralt had to believe Jaskier was safe. He had survived this far, after all.

He opened the door to his room, and stopped short before he could even take a step inside.

Jaskier was sat on the end of Geralt's bed.

He offered Geralt a small smile. "I heard you were looking for me," he said.

Slowly, as if Jaskier was a flighty cat Geralt might frighten away with any sudden movement, he stepped forward and set his swords against the wall. "How did you know where to find me?"

"Word spreads, in my line of work."

Geralt quirked an eyebrow. "Which line of work would that be?" he said. His voice came out rough. He wasn't sure if he'd meant it to or not.

"Are you angry with me?"

Gods, he wanted to be. Was _trying_ to be.

"You lied to me."

"Ah," said Jaskier, raising a long finger, "I think if you look back, you'll find I never actually _lied_ about anything. Not to you, at any rate."

He looked up at Geralt, the hopeful smile on his face fading as Geralt folded his arms, unmoved. The sight of it caused a shard of the ice Geralt was desperately trying to hold within his chest to thaw.

Geralt had played out this moment so many times over the last few weeks, imagining all the things he might say: berating Jaskier for agreeing to something so reckless; cursing him for betraying the trust Geralt had foolishly placed in him; begging him to simply be Jaskier the bard, who cared about nothing but sex and song, and whose company made the Path so much easier to travel. The words all seemed to slip away from him now.

"I wanted to tell you," Jaskier said. "You must understand why I couldn't, Geralt, surely."

Geralt sucked on the inside of his cheek. He held out for as long as he could, but it was no use. Not when Jaskier was looking at him like that. Not when Jaskier was there with him at all.

"I do," he relented. He pushed himself away from the wall and turned to the room's small hearth, if only for an excuse to put his back to Jaskier until he could remember how to steel himself against him.

"You know, when it first started I used to be petrified that I wouldn't be able to keep it from you. That you would grow suspicious, or I'd just blurt it all out in some drunken urge to impress you."

Geralt's lips twitched. "What changed?" he said. He turned back to Jaskier in time to see him give a simple shrug.

"I realised you didn't particularly care what I got up to when we'd go our separate ways. It took the pressure off."

"That's not—"

Jaskier silenced him with a look.

And he was right; Geralt hadn't cared, not when he had assumed Jaskier's exploits were of the same bed-hopping and jealous husband-escaping variety he subjected Geralt to when they were together. He hadn't wanted to know about the endless string of women who had captured Jaskier's heart or broken it. His imagination had always been too good at filling in those details without outside assistance.

Geralt sighed, and moved to take a seat in the chair opposite the bed. "Go on, then," he said. He owed Jaskier as much, he supposed. And he couldn't help the burgeoning curiosity of his own. "How does a bard end up becoming a spy?"

"It's easier than you might think," said Jaskier, a familiar smile teasing at his lips, "when you've debts to pay and no particular scruples against snooping through people's drawers. You'd be amazed how many people are scheming against somebody else, or think everyone is scheming against them."

"From the sound of it, they probably are."

"Which is precisely why my services are in such demand."

"And Foltest?"

"Was not best pleased to discover his closest advisor had betrayed him," answered Jaskier. He didn't look overly concerned about his role in provoking the ire of a king, even though men had died for far less. "I'm sure Triss can handle the fallout."

Geralt could believe that, at least. Triss had the privilege of her position to keep her safe. Jaskier had no such protection against any vengeful lord looking for someone to blame for all this backstabbing and betrayal. He was expendable.

"I don't need to tell you this is dangerous."

"No, you don't," said Jaskier. "But you're going to anyway."

"If you get caught, they will kill you."

"There is quite the exhaustive list of men who want me dead already," he replied, as if Geralt wasn't keenly aware of that fact. As if Geralt hadn't been there to keep so many of them from succeeding. "What's a few more added to it?"

"Jaskier—"

" _I know_ , Geralt. I do take this seriously."

"Hmm." That didn't sound like Jaskier at all. Not the Jaskier Geralt knew — but then the Jaskier Geralt knew wasn't the one sat opposite him. At least, not entirely. And Geralt wasn't sure how to reconcile what he did know of Jaskier with the considerable part of him that had so suddenly become a mystery. "I'm not going to be able to talk you out of it, am I?"

Jaskier's eyes twinkled, an impish expression on his face that Geralt had been met with too many times before. "My dear witcher," he said, "when have you ever been able to talk me out of anything?"

The chair gave a pained creak as Geralt sank back heavily into it. "You're impossible," he said, but he was smiling.

"I'm delightful, thank you very much."

Geralt laughed at that, and Jaskier beamed back at him, the way he always did when he managed to lift Geralt's spirits. In the quiet of Geralt's room, it felt almost easy between them. But still there was something nagging within Geralt.

"How much of this—" his gaze flicked over Jaskier; the bright silk of his clothes, as utterly impractical for a life on the road as ever; his lute resting beside him on the bed "—is you? Really you."

Jaskier's gaze was soft. "It's all me, Geralt," he said. "Do you think I could annoy you so much if it wasn't?"

"You do it on purpose, sometimes."

"Only when I know you won't punch me for it."

At the words, Geralt's mind went back to their last meeting: his arm pressed to Jaskier's throat in the darkness, and a blade poised deadly at Geralt's flank.

"You know how to fight," he said. It was a thought that had been circling too often for comfort. "Yet you'd rather patch up my injuries after a hunt than step in and help during?"

"You always managed perfectly well on your own," Jaskier said. "Besides, the songs wouldn't be half as gripping if you needed someone to wade in and rescue you all the time. How am I supposed to sell you as the great and fearsome White Wolf with that?"

"Rescue me," Geralt scoffed.

"You heard." There was a grin on Jaskier's face, and Geralt met it in kind. "I learnt a lot of it from watching you," he added, as if to soothe Geralt's wounded pride.

"You study me?"

"In case it has escaped your notice, Geralt, you aren't the most forthcoming individual on the Continent. Where did you think I got all the details for the songs? Because it wasn't your bloody awful recounts, let me tell you."

Geralt turned that information over. How many times had he found Jaskier waiting at the very edge of a fight, creeping ever closer? Was that what he had been doing then; watching Geralt, taking in the way he parried a blow, cut down a target? The image slipped in, unbidden, of Jaskier sliding Geralt's sword from its sheath and, in the dark of their sleeping camp, practising those same moves.

Something twisted inside him. It wasn't an unpleasant sensation.

"I wouldn't claim to be nearly as handy with a sword as a witcher," Jaskier was saying, and Geralt blinked as he forced his mind to the present. "But I suppose the skill would be wasted on me, anyway. If I'm getting attacked by people with swords I've done something wrong well before that."

And there it was again, the reminder that Jaskier was one mistake away from a fate worse than any Geralt would face from the dangers in his own life. It ached in Geralt's chest. The thought of losing Jaskier. The thought that maybe Geralt had never really had him to begin with.

"Jaskier."

"Yes, Geralt?"

"What else don't I know about you?"

Jaskier looked back at him. "What would you like to know?"

The room was quiet for long seconds, nothing but the crackle of the fire, the faint sounds of people moving about in their own rooms throughout the inn. It all seemed like a world away from the two of them.

"Everything."

And so Jaskier told him.

He didn't know how long Jaskier talked. Probably far longer than Geralt had humoured him before. Certainly longer than he had ever actually listened. The air grew cold enough that Geralt added more logs to the fire, helped the flames swell with a gesture until it was large enough to replace the light that had long stopped pouring in through the window.

Geralt didn't speak. All Jaskier ever wanted was an audience, and Geralt willingly provided it. He didn't trust himself to speak, anyway. Not when Jaskier talked of near misses, of finding knowledge that would have placed a target on his back. He gave no names, no details that could slither out into the world and implicate either of them — he was too good to make that mistake, Geralt realised with a strange sense of pride — though Geralt had no interest in the secrets themselves but in the man so adept at stealing them.

But as Jaskier grew more animated, Geralt recognised the shift in his tone. It was one he had heard too many times, over too many drinks, as Jaskier would retell the old stories of sexual exploits and comic misadventures that only ever seemed to be shared in taverns and drunken courts.

"That didn't happen," said Geralt.

They were on the floor now, huddled closer to the fire. Closer to one another. Ostensibly, it had been to share the food Geralt sent for, but the food was long gone now and yet they remained.

Jaskier sat back against the bedpost and met Geralt's sceptical gaze.

"I'm a storyteller, Geralt. You must allow me some creative embellishment." He let out a familiar weary sigh. "But it's fine. Have it your own boring way."

"It's not boring."

None of it was. Geralt hung on Jaskier's every word as the puzzle pieces of Jaskier's life began to slot into place. The stories he shared, from his time at Oxenfurt to the absurd beginnings of his rivalry with the infamous Valdo Marx, and the ones he pointedly skirted of his father's court; it all added up to the man sat before Geralt.

"I never sold you out," Jaskier said, without prompting. "And not through lack of opportunity — for years people have been trying to use me to get to you. I've been offered enough money to make kings weep just to reveal what makes a witcher tick. I never accepted."

Geralt smiled back at him. He had never believed Jaskier would. "Thank you," he said all the same, then: "Would you really have told me everything just to impress me?"

"Geralt," said Jaskier, "I would have given my right arm to impress you, once upon a time." He bumped his shoulder against Geralt's, and as Geralt studied his face, shot him a sidelong look. A smile tugged at his lips. "Does it?"

He had to turn away to try and suppress his laugh, and even then he couldn't manage it. "I'm impressed that your death wish is even worse than I thought."

Geralt looked back to find Jaskier's eyes still on him. And maybe it was just the firelight reflected there, but they seemed warmer than ever.

"I'll take it," he said.

In the comfortable lull between stories, Jaskier's gaze travelled to the window. The sky was still dark, but there were the first faint signs of dawn approaching, the first sounds of birds beginning to chirp far in the distance.

Geralt hadn't realised they had sat talking for so long.

"I should get moving," said Jaskier. He clapped a hand to Geralt's knee and pushed himself to his feet. The peace that had settled around them disappeared with the movement. "Can't have you out there hunting on no sleep."

Geralt didn't mention that he hadn't yet taken a contract. A brusque nod, and he stood. He watched without a word as Jaskier fastened his doublet and moved to gather his things. He didn't know why some absurd part of him had thought Jaskier would choose to stay, to join Geralt for another stretch like he always used to when their paths would cross.

Jaskier took a step towards the door. "Goodbye, Geralt."

"Don't," he said, before he could think it through.

Don't what? _Don't keep putting yourself in danger for the sake of petty things like ending rebellions and saving the life of a king_? Geralt had no right to demand that.

_Don't go so long without sending word that you're still safe_?

Maybe.

But Jaskier was watching him, waiting for Geralt to say something, and all Geralt could manage was—

"Don't go."


End file.
